


Round the table

by Builder



Series: Pantherverse [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: And has a terrible time, Black Panther visits New York, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minimally, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: It's his first visit to New York as a member of the team, and luck is not on T'Challa's side.  He finds himself at the table not only as the new guy, but also miserably sick.





	Round the table

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

T’Challa sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.  He’s not sure what just hit him, but whatever it is, it’s not pleasant.  He’s been off the plane for all of two hours, and in the Avengers facility for all of one.  Now he’s spent nearly ten minutes sitting as still as he can, wondering if he dares tiptoe into the bathroom to get a sip of water.

It’s too late to be motion sickness, and he hasn’t eaten anything unusual.  It would be rotten luck if some kind of bug is taking effect just now.  The last thing he needs is to start some ridiculous Ebola rumor.  T’Challa presses his palms flat to his cheeks.  He’s warm.  And growing clammy.

There’s a knock on his door, and T’Challa jumps as the knob turns.  He swallows forcefully and does his best to put on a stoic face.

Nat pops her head inside.  “Hey, I know you just landed,” but we have a situation.  “Tony has Fury on a conference call downstairs.  He’s asking everybody to come listen in.”

“Oh.”  T’Challa sits up straight.  His stomach flips, and he wraps one arm around it as he pushes himself up off the bed.  “Yes.  Of-of course.”

Nat gives him a once over, but all she says is, “Ok.  See you down there.”

T’Challa can already hear her knocking on the door to the next room by the time he gets completely to his feet.  He takes a stabilizing breath and swallows hard, willing his nausea down.  “Ok,” he murmurs.

Downstairs, T’Challa takes a seat between Clint and Steve.  He scoots his chair in as far as he can without pinning his chest against the table.  He plants both arms around his writhing stomach and tries to focus on the voice coming from the polycom in the middle of the table.

“…We don’t know where they came from.  The organization looks like Hydra, but the tech looks…not of this world.  Did you get the files I sent?”

“Yeah, I’m showing them now,” Tony says from his seat at the head of the table.  He flicks his fingers in midair, and holographic images appear.  It’s some kind of surveillance footage, T’Challa thinks.  It’s slightly blurry, and he can barely stand to look at it.  He drops his gaze to the wood grain of the table, but even that brings a sour taste to the back of his throat.

Fury starts to say something else.  T’Challa doesn’t quite follow.  His attention is squarely elsewhere.  A cramp rises, and he forces out a slow, deep breath to quell a belch.  He can feel vomit climbing into his esophagus.  He has to excuse himself.  He won’t be able to stop it from happening; the least he can do is find privacy.  But T’Challa’s knees are shaking under the table.  He isn’t sure they’ll hold his weight.

The urge to gag is becoming difficult to fight.  T’Challa sucks in air through his nose and presses his lips tightly together.  He wills Tony to hurry up and adjourn the meeting.  He wills himself to get the courage to just walk out.   _You are a king_ , he thinks.   _You are in control of your stomach_.

“Yeah, we’ll pair off, approach from a few angles to keep them from having an out,” Tony’s saying.  Then, “I’m sorry.  Are you…What’s wrong with you?”

A ripple runs down the table as everyone turns in their seat.  It takes T’Challa a second to realize they’re all looking at him.

“Hm?”  But his concentration lapses, and a retch latches onto the curious sound on its way out.  He claps his hand over his mouth.  It’s too late to do anything but desperately shove his chair back a few inches.  He catches the edge of the table even though most of the vomit ends up on the floor.  Blood pounds in his ears as he heaves again, but he can still hear the room erupting into panic.

“Whoa, ok,” Tony says.  “Nick, I think we’ve got everything important.  I’ll call you back if questions come up.”  The polycom beeps as Tony hangs up.

“I am…so sorry,” T’Challa chokes, taking the napkin Steve offers him and wiping sweat from his forehead before dragging it over his mouth.  “This is…terribly unprofessional.”

“No, it’s fine,” Clint chimes in, standing up and holding out a hand.  “Let’s just get you back to your room.”  T’Challa lurches forward again.  “Or maybe to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, just anywhere that’s not here,” Tony agrees.  “And your benched.  And quarantined.”

“Of course,” T’Challa agrees in a pained breath.  He holds the napkin over his mouth and lets Clint pull him out of his chair and guide him toward the door.  “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you worry,” the archer says, holding the door open with his foot.

“That’s not how I wanted to make my first impression,” T’Challa groans, reaching out to the wall for support.

“Eh.”  Clint shrugs.  “I’ll poke ‘em with an arrow under the table if I hear them teasing you later.”


End file.
